The man gave an embarrassed little laugh. He had not meant to let that name slip out just yet. “Yes.” He hesitated, then plunged on recklessly. “We tramped half over Europe together last summer.” “Did you?” Billy left her seat at the piano for one nearer the fire. “But this isn't telling me about your own plans,” she hurried on a little precipitately. “You've studied before, of course. Your voice shows that.” “Oh, yes; I've studied singing several years, and I've had a year or two of church work, besides a little concert practice of a mild sort.” “Have you begun here, yet?” “Y-yes, I've had my voice tried.” Billy sat erect with eager interest. “They liked it, of course?” Arkwright laughed. “I'm not saying that.” “No, but I am,” declared Billy, with conviction. “They couldn't help liking it.” Arkwright laughed again. Just how well they had “liked it” he did not intend to say. Their remarks had been quite too flattering to repeat even to this very plainly interested young woman--delightful and heart-warming as was this same show of interest, to himself. “Thank you,” was all he said. Billy gave an excited little bounce in her chair. “And you'll begin to learn rôles right away?” “I already have, some--after a fashion--before I came here.” “Really? How splendid! Why, then you'll be acting them next right on the Boston Opera House stage, and we'll all go to hear you. How perfectly lovely! I can hardly wait.” Arkwright laughed--but his eyes glowed with pleasure. “Aren't you hurrying things a little?” he ventured. “But they do let the students appear,” argued Billy. “I knew a girl last year who went on in 'Aida,' and she was a pupil at the School. She sang first in a Sunday concert, then they put her in the bill for a Saturday night. She did splendidly--so well that they gave her a chance later at a subscription performance. Oh, you'll be there--and soon, too!” “Thank you! I only wish the powers that could put me there had your flattering enthusiasm on the matter,” he smiled. “I don't worry any,” nodded Billy, “only please don't 'arrive' too soon--not before the wedding, you know,” she added jokingly. “We shall be too busy to give you proper attention until after that.” A peculiar look crossed Arkwright's face. “The--_wedding?_” he asked, a little faintly. “Yes. Didn't you know? My friend, Miss Hawthorn, is to marry Mr. Cyril Henshaw next month.” The man opposite relaxed visibly. “Oh, _Miss Hawthorn!_ No, I didn't know,” he murmured; then, with sudden astonishment he added: “And to Mr. Cyril, the musician, did you say?” “Yes. You seem surprised.” “I am.” Arkwright paused, then went on almost defiantly. “You see, Calderwell was telling me only last September how very unmarriageable all the Henshaw brothers were. So I am surprised--naturally,” finished Arkwright, as he rose to take his leave. A swift crimson stained Billy's face. “But surely you must know that--that--”